


Refrigerator

by Hagen



Series: Cauliflower [2]
Category: Logan Lucky (2017)
Genre: F/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 18:15:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14266782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hagen/pseuds/Hagen
Summary: There's always a next time.





	Refrigerator

**Author's Note:**

> Night Moves | Bob Seger - https://open.spotify.com/track/6UBjSnyP1O5W5ndJoO9vUk?si=xn-NPiM9TGGNipLtUJDHdA

It is truly months – three, four, five; right up until the air is cooling again, summer folded away into autumn – until you have sex. Neither of you put it off, exactly, but Clyde is not the type to fuck after a first kiss. You aren’t averse, but for _him---_

 

                It seems better this way. There are no labels upon either of you, not even after five months. Not even after you’ve come every day to bring him books and pick daisies in the meadow. Your visits were always brief – he likes his own space, just like you – but he would find ways to extend your stay, even if just for moments. He gave you an old copy of Tom Sawyer, the first time, and you lingered at the door just to look at his mouth as he spoke.

 

                Often you kiss him goodbye. It makes you want to cling to him, so that you both might stumble backwards and onto a flat surface – the couch, the kitchen table, the _floor_ – but you digress, and you leave. Your car engine roars and you drive away, body aching.

               

                It happens on a cool, wet afternoon. The sky is very nearly black with heavy clouds, and the rain feels like icy hornet stings, cold and hard. It soaks you almost to the skin as you dart up the path and past the gate. He has the door open, as though he was waiting. You fling your arms about his neck and exclaim, “It’s so _cold!”_ You can see your breath in the air on the porch, and he kisses you unexpectedly before you even cross the threshold, metal arm hard at the small of your back. This is your first hint that something has changed. You welcome it.

 

                You sit on the window-seat in the living-room  – Clyde tells you that he finds it unnecessarily ostentatious, because he can hardly fit, hunched into the alcove of the window – and he sits at your feet, head on your knee. You stroke his hair, and his breath is hot against your denim-clad knee. A giant hand rests loosely around your ankle.

 

                The rain lashes the window beside you. Its pattering is loud. Clyde says, “I’ve been thinkin’.”

 

                “What about?”

 

                “You.”

 

                “Oh?”

 

                You end up lying atop of him on the couch, hands curled in the soft worn navy of his shirt, and you’re kissing, like always. An aging news anchor drones monotonously, the TV on low.

 

                This time your bodies shift more than you have let them of old; you end up with a thick thigh between your legs, and when you dare to undulate your hips, testing your boundaries, he pushes right back. His eyes are darker than you have ever seen them when you pull back to look at his face. His hands, both flesh and metal, find your buttocks, shifting your legs down around him. You make a soft sound at the heat of his belly against yours.

 

                When your hands go to the collar of his shirt, his breath hitches, and you go still, waiting.

 

                “Is this … okay?” you ask.

 

                “Depends on what you mean by _it,_ ” he breathes.

 

                You let go. “Oh – I – well, I thought-“

 

                “Because I think I’d like to take you to bed,” he says, “if you’ll let me.” He pauses, though, hands coming back up to your waist. His mechanical arm whirrs softly as he curls it above your hip. “But – are you on …” His eyes go between you and your stomach, and you blush.

 

                “The pill? No. But,” you add, “I do have … condoms.” It feels like a dirty word, for all that you are a grown woman and he is a grown man.

               

                 He starts, surprised.

 

                You feel guilty, almost. Your backpack holds many things – chapstick, car keys, wallet, crumpled and forgotten receipts … and now, condoms. You started bringing them after the first that your bodies had begun to respond to one another, just in case. You feel shitty for it, now,  _predatory_ – like some over-eager ‘ _you can’t change your mind once you’ve said yes_ ’ frat boy, and you hesitate, watching for his response.

 

                He shocks you and laughs.

 

                “I s’pose I should’ve done the same,” he says. “Forward thinkin’ and all that.”

 

                “You’re not … mad?”

 

                It becomes very clear, when he carries you like a baby to the bedroom and your bodies are stripped of clothes and Clyde has his hand rubbing circles between your legs, that he is not mad at all.

               

                You’ve thought about what he would look like unbound by clothes more times than you care to admit. It would be stupid to say that he isn’t intimidating at first glance; he _is,_ huge and dark and stern-faced. But _here,_ eyes soft as he leans his head against your hand – you’re not afraid. The hair on his arms and legs is thick, coarse, as dark as a shadow, and he smells _good,_ like laundry and coffee and Old Spice.

 

You don’t want to compare him to a kitchen appliance, but he’s like a refrigerator; no nonsense of narrow hips, tapered waist. He is broad all the way down, hulking shoulders and burly hips. There’s black hair on his tummy, too, and coarse and thick between his legs.

 

You knew the measure of his cock already; you’d felt it against you through layers of cotton and denim and seen the rigid bulge of it behind his jeans. It didn’t prepare you. It, like the rest of him, is big and solid. It seems to throb with urgency. His chest heaves, and he is so _beautiful._

 

                You are shocked when he drags your hips to the edge of the bed and pushes apart your thighs. “Tell me if you want me stop.”

 

                You are adamant that this moment – asking _him_ to _stop_ – will never come. _You_ do come, though, from his tongue relentlessly circling your clit, one big hand on the base of your belly keeping you in place. He keeps you there even after it becomes too much to bear – you don’t tell him to stop even as your body twitches desperately from overstimulation, and you come again, breaths sharp and short in your lungs.

 

                You didn’t fuck about with buying the condoms. No faffing, no fussing; no plastic-fruit flavours or intricate ribbing. Just – large. You tell him as much as you hand him the box, and he laughs, pulling one free.

 

                “Next time,” he murmurs.

 

                You’ve had sex before – once, twice – but the advance of him inside you is inexorable. You shift your hips at the slow, burning stretch. His big thighs press hard against your rear.

 

                “Go easy on me, now,” he says, and you touch his chest. “I only got one hand.” You laugh and he laughs and you kiss, and it deepens and you melt so much you could die.

 

                He is on his elbows above you. He won’t be able to grip your hips up against him, not properly – one hand, no matter how big, will unbalance it, and his metal hand doesn’t possess that kind of dexterity of grip, so he takes it off and sets it on the bedside table. You wrap both arms about his middle and urge him down on top of you, bare skin on bare skin. He’s so heavy it pulls the air from you, but you don’t want him to move. You want him to trap you between the bulk of his big body and the mattress.

 

                It is slow and quiet and patient. Every gentle creak of the bedsprings, every shift and rustle of the sheets, every soft wet sound as your mouths connect and tongues slide – all of it, you think, is utterly worth savouring. There is always a next time for rough handling, for sharp and erratic thrusts, for loud exclamations of pleasure that borders on pain. There will always be a next time.

 

                You _think_ that.

 

                The headboard starts knocking against the wall the closer you both get. _Maybe now is next time,_ you think, marvelling at the way he huffs against the side of your face, nipping softly at your ear. Both arms go tighter and tighter around his big back, blunt nails scraping but not scratching. The rain hammers at the skylight above.

 

                It is becoming more difficult to stay as quiet as you were before. Clyde’s hand comes back down between your legs – he _knows,_ he’s not stupid or blind to the increasing frequency of noises that you’re making – and it is a matter of the pad of a broad thumb pressing, stroking, _stroking-_

 

                And you’re gone.

Clyde comes with a loud grunt, hips stuttering and shoving _deep._ The headboard _slams_ and goes quiet. You do, too, and as he goes limp on top of you. The rain lashes the windows, the skylight. He is warm, and you sleep.


End file.
